


clouds come floating into my life

by persianroselove



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! have fun, F/M, and how much he's like .................. totally head over heels in luh w her, bc all kaz does is stand on a pier and angst over how pretty she is, hennyways she lüks cute in this fic, like more than kaz pining over her I AM, literally me describing inej, that's literally the whole plot, who is the love of my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 15:16:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11603301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persianroselove/pseuds/persianroselove
Summary: The spears of her collarbones pushed delicately at skin, like she was a bird meant for flight, meant for that eternal dove-grey sky.— Kaz never knew beauty could be so painful.





	clouds come floating into my life

**Author's Note:**

> refer to tags! seriously short fluffy piece.

He charts his days not by months, but by the passages of wind and sea, by the moon cycles Inej is gone.

He remembers the day she first comes home from a sea voyage, because it isn’t a true return.

Meaning – she’s only coming home from carrying her parents across the grim grey waters. He numbers that day as the first because he remembers every moment of it, from the second her silver little boat takes port to the moment the alleys of Ketterdam sink into inky darkness. Mostly – he remembers the way she looks.

She had stepped down onto the pier in perfect new indigo slippers, her ankles poking out above the edges. The briny Kerch sea breeze had risen, salty and stinging and smelling of orange jurda blossoms. His hat had shadowed the angles of his face. Strands of her dark hair had caught on the wind, and his heart had skipped over _one, two, three, four_ beats and don’t you see?

He remembers _everything, everything, everything –_

The gleam of burnished apricot-hued thread in her loose hair, spinning down her shoulders in dark waves and tendrils, curls he could get lost in for hours, could kiss, could weigh in his hands like _gold, Saints_ , the way her hair shone in that watery alabaster sunlight. Her woven coal-black jacket, hugging her skin, diamond-patterned, protecting her from the chill that clung to Ketterdam as a child to its mother. The spears of her collarbones, pushing delicately at skin, like she was a bird meant for flight, meant for that eternal dove-grey sky, and that’s when it had hit him, honestly –

Because he’s not a superstitious man by any means. He doesn’t buy into those Saintsforsaken Kerch fortune tellers who sit at crossroads with rusted teeth and send light reeling with mirrors. He doesn’t buy into her fortune tellers, either, who wear blood-red jackal masks and read prophecies from coffee. He doesn’t buy into those little slips of paper the Shu put into their sugary folded crackers that they think will give you a horoscope for the day beyond. He doesn’t buy into the lines on his hands or into the paths of stars or into anything, truly, but this – because this could only be the work of Saints with hearts that rotted with contempt for him. For what else could it be? What else could this girl be, with her prim little mouth and spectral silhouette and hair that glitters like rose-lanterned flower boats on festival nights? What else could she be, but a desert mirage in a blood-soaked world, of what he could never touch or kiss or have?

Look at that smile. Don’t tell him it’s the work of anything but the divine.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a quote by Rabindranath Tagore.


End file.
